Accensus In Die Iudicii
by Peripheral Vision
Summary: Kasumi Karen before, after and inbetween


Accensus in Die Iudicii  
  
  
He flips to a new sheet of his notebook. "Are you ever  
embarrassed?"  
  
"Embarrassed?"  
  
He clears his throat and taps pencil against paper. The question  
came out wrong and he knows that, but not how the correction should  
go. "Not that -- just... maybe when you first started or, er... has  
anything you were supposed to do make you... uncomfortable?"  
  
"This is a very professional place of business," I say. "My  
customers have always behaved appropriately."  
  
It's the truth. Don't let anyone say that soapgirls are trashy. We're  
as high class as they come, especially the ones here -- you know a  
businessman's made it if he visits Flower. Personally, I've never  
serviced anyone who wasn't at least an executive.  
  
Not that being an executive means a man wouldn't try anything.  
But executive's have reputations to keep, and we're high class girls.  
We wouldn't be afraid to make something public.  
  
He clears his throat again (he has such an adorable blush). "That's  
not exactly--"  
  
"But I've never been embarrassed about what I do." I run a finger  
over my cross, as familiar a sensation as touching my own skin. "With  
this on, I've never even felt naked."  
  
*****  
  
The Kamui is so young.  
  
I hadn't known what to expect from him so I hadn't formed many  
expectations at all, but the Kamui is not even something I am  
accustomed to.  
  
He's beautiful unlike anything I've ever seen. Not in the least bit  
sexual (although the way that friend of his looks at him, mine might be  
a minority opinion) but ethereal to the point of being unreal. Which is  
appropriate I suppose, although that in itself is tragic. Now that I have  
seen him, he's also so painfully human.  
  
He's too young. Young and brittle. Slight. His eyes look bigger  
than everything else about him put together, and they're raw, bleeding  
like wounds that haven't even begun to heal. He looks like he can  
barely save himself, let alone the whole world.  
  
I love him already. I love him for his fragility, and, watching him  
just before he will meet me for the first time, I think maybe his  
weakness is appropriate too.  
  
****  
  
I wait outside while Mama confesses. We confess at night because  
Mama says she needs to be cleansed the most when the demons are  
out. Mama always asks if I mind waiting in the dark, empty church  
while she goes, but I don't. I like getting to sit in the front row -- it's  
always full during Mass -- and it's not dark in here. There are the  
candles.  
  
Since I can't use Mama's rosary, I make up my own prayers. I tell  
God that I hope Papa's happy in heaven and that the demons stop  
hurting Mama and making her cut herself with the knife. I pray that I'll  
like school and the other kids. I tell God that I love him very much,  
and I thank him for making the world.  
  
Mama always worries that I won't like waiting for her, but this is  
my favorite time in the whole world, alone with the Lord and the fire.  
  
*****  
  
He shows me wallet sized photos of his wife and child when I ask.  
They're both beautiful; the daughter takes after him, the wife looks  
happy and kind. There's one picture of him sitting with his wife, their  
daughter squirming onto their laps, the three of them grinning at each  
other. They all look madly in love.  
  
It fascinates me. Even knowing who he was, he risked marrying a  
sweetheart, having a child. He values this love, this contentment, so  
much he placed on its subjects' heads a lifetime of worry and fear,  
untold pain and, quite possibly, an ugly death.  
  
I wonder if that makes me a coward or him a fool.  
  
****  
  
My feet ache -- you really shouldn't go into a pre-Apocalyptic  
skirmish wearing heels. Its scarves have cut my arms and I can taste  
blood in my mouth from when I fell, but I'm strangely satisfied. It was  
right to take Aoki-san's place, even if my motivation was slightly  
selfish. I'm glad I was able to meet this terrible, marvelous creature  
with its lost eyes, who is both what I'm fighting and what I'm fighting  
for.  
  
"There's no such thing as a person who doesn't feel," I tell it.  
"You're the only one who believes that."  
  
I think it wants to believe me. It lands near me, and maybe this will  
end peacefully, maybe the person before me can be more than an  
opponent.  
  
And then I am knocked over.  
  
****  
  
Mama's been telling me for years that the very minute I'm old  
enough she'll take me to Communion and Confession and have me  
Absolved. But today's my ninth birthday and she locked me in the  
closet.  
  
"Demons can't be absolved," she told me. "They can only be  
exorcized!"  
  
But as I try to stop my elbow from bleeding (it got caught on the  
door hinges) while I crouch in the dark, I think that maybe Mama  
didn't take me because Communion is so holy. The wine and the wafer  
might poison a demon, and, just maybe, she doesn't want me to die  
yet.  
  
*****  
  
Sorata's gesticulating so frantically as he tells me his girl problems  
that he would have knocked over my coffee if I hadn't plucked it out  
of his way. He's emotional but he's earnest -- Arashi will be a lucky  
girl when she finds the strength to accept him.  
  
"So what do you think, Karen-san?" he asks. "I've done everything  
I know of to impress her and nothing's worked. What romantic stuff  
have the fellas' done for you that swept you off your feet?"  
  
I laugh, surprised. "You'd do better asking Aoki-san how he  
wooed his wife. I'm sorry, but no one's ever done anything very  
romantic for me."  
  
He sputters. "C'mon! You expect me to believe that?"  
  
The cup clinks when I put it back down on the saucer. "I'm not  
exactly the sort of girl you buy flowers for, Sorata-kun."  
  
He gets serious in that way of his that's unexpectedly sobering. "I  
would buy you flowers, Karen-san."  
  
He's a good kid. They all are. So good and so /young/...  
  
I ruffle his hair. "If only you were ten years older, Sorata-kun."  
  
He cackles, rocking his chair back until it's in danger of tipping  
over, and I'm glad the serious part of the conversation is over. "I'll tell  
ya! If I was, you'd give Miss a run for her money!"  
  
I can't blame Arashi for being afraid of what he offers in the same  
way I can't blame Sorata for needing to offer it. She is afraid of losing  
love; he is afraid of never having it. Ying and yang, although I  
probably don't have the authority to make Taoist allusions.  
  
I wonder if between the opposites of light and dark, there is a place  
the two flow together, not wholly one or the other and not yet pooling  
into a new shade, but somewhere where they intertwine, undecided in  
the process of discovering each other.  
  
*****  
  
The next customer isn't a regular yet, but he will be. He's in his  
forties and makes an attempt to stay in shape. He calls me 'sweetheart,'  
but there have been worse.  
  
"I'll have that foreign looking one," I hear him tell the receptionist  
over the intercom. "The one with all the hair and the wise eyes."  
  
That's interesting. I've never thought of myself as having wise eyes.  
Tired, maybe. Lost, certainly. Maybe that's what he's referring to.  
Maybe, for people who aren't even looking, the search is easy to  
mistake for the enlightenment.  
  
*****  
  
I identify him by the blonde hair first. The recognition that he is a  
Dragon of Earth comes sluggishly on the other's tail, and I feel foolish.  
  
He sees me and smiles, nice as pie. Too late for it now, and I stop  
and face him, one hand on my hip.  
  
"Miss," he says. "How nice to see you again. Would you care to  
join me?" He folds his newspaper and tilts his head to the empty chair  
across the table.  
  
"I don't think so," I say, clipped. "Unless you want to--"  
  
"There isn't an important kekkai around here. It would be  
impractical to start anything right now, and I have a rather pressing  
engagement tonight I would rather not miss. So, would you like to sit  
down? I hear they make an excellent cake here."  
  
"I don't like sweets," I tell him flatly, and leave.  
  
Out of the corner of my eye, I see him look almost... sad.  
  
*****  
  
I found my flame in church.  
  
I was praying, I believe. Prayer used to make me feel the way  
marijuana later never quite could -- peaceful, understanding, at one  
with myself and the universe. My eyes were closed and my hands were  
clasped, and I curved them out slightly, fingertips still touching, and  
gave birth to fire.  
  
I remember laughing when I saw it. It was so pretty. I remember  
thinking how wonderful God was for letting me have such a thing.  
  
I remember being so excited to show my mother.  
  
I remember her face when she saw it.  
  
*****  
  
He's not my type in absolutely every respect I can think of, so of  
course I fell for him like a ton of bricks.  
  
What am I talking about, he's exactly my type. Or he would be, if I  
had a type. I've never been one for chocolate on Valentine's Day and  
yearly anniversaries. Men don't want relationships with a soapgirl,  
even if they're only paying for dinner.  
  
The problem, of course, is that I am not in the least his type, not  
even in a way he would find alluring. I wouldn't want to seduce him,  
though. I don't go out of my way to commit adultery.  
  
You laugh, but I live by rules. Strict ones -- any Catholic will tell  
you there's no point in having a guilt-based moral system if the laws  
aren't draconian. I have a firm code, and I will not stray in part  
because I modified it to be so uniquely my own.  
  
I will not allow anyone to be hurt before myself. Especially anyone  
others depend on and care for. And especially anyone I care for  
myself.  
  
So sleep, Aoki-san. I would rather you be angry upon waking up  
than never have you wake up at all.  
  
*****  
  
There aren't many people at Mama's wake. Mama thought people  
were corrupt and their sin might spread to her, so she didn't talk to  
anyone much. Father Isaac is there, and most of the people who come  
to Sunday Mass every week like we did, but that's it.  
  
They stand in clusters, holding paper plates full of food and not  
looking at the coffin. They look at me, once in a while, and shake their  
heads. "The poor child," they say.  
  
They don't know. They can't see what I really am, what I've done.  
They don't know that I was so thick with sin that I couldn't even  
contain all of it. It crawled out of me and chocked my mother.  
  
I killed Mama by being her daughter.  
  
*****  
  
She told me, of all things, in a dream.  
  
Of course, I know now that there weren't many other ways she  
could have approached me. But before I went to the Diet Building to  
question her in more detail, part of me thought it was all horribly  
cliched.  
  
I wasn't surprised when she told me. If anything I was obscurely  
relieved, as if I could finally stop holding my breath. There had to be a  
reason I exist, and here it was.  
  
I almost wanted to ask her, "what took you so long?"  
  
*****  
  
I hate water, always have, the way cats must hate it. It infuriates  
me, makes me bristle.  
  
It's been weeks since the fight and I still feel drenched from head to  
toe. I can still hear that water master's voice, and I hate it. I hate /him/.  
I'm not used to hating anything, and I'm surprised by the depths of the  
emotion and how much energy must be exerted over it.  
  
I hate him for precisely the same reasons I hate his element. He  
never stopped smiling the entire battle; he flattered me as he tried to  
kill me. I was fine with the banter, banter I can handle, but don't try to  
pretend this is anything but what it is, don't say one thing and mean  
another. Water can save you or destroy you on whim. It is one or  
other as it pleases.  
  
You can tame fire as best you can, contain it and feed it just  
enough to keep it alive, but it will still burn you if you get too close.  
  
*****  
  
I had thought losing my virginity would be more complicated than  
this. But it turns out not to be a big deal at all -- just a half a bottle of  
white wine and some giggling and fumbling and sheets I'll have to  
wash tomorrow.  
  
I watch him sleep for a little while before it gets boring. There's  
nothing particularly poetic about him when he's sleeping. His mouth is  
open; I hope he doesn't start snoring.  
  
I turn over on my side, away from him, trying to keep the sheets  
covering my chest like in the movies, but everything's sticky and  
uncomfortable and I give up after a while.  
  
I guess I'm an adult now.  
  
*****  
  
Mama likes my hair. When she's in her better moods, I lie down on  
the bed with my head in her lap and she brushes it with the antique  
brush she got from her own mother.  
  
My head still hurts, although the blood is drying. My hair must  
look so ugly. Mama won't want to brush it now.  
  
Maybe if I clean the blood off the bedpost, she won't be as angry  
with me.  
  
I'm sorry about the fire. I should have known it was bad.  
  
But it was so pretty...  
  
I can hear Mama praying in bathroom.  
  
I should pray too. Pray and clean the bedpost. But my head's still  
so fuzzy...  
  
I'll pray soon, Lord Jesus God who died so we may live. I swear I  
will. I'll be a good girl. There won't be any more fire.  
  
I promise.  
  
*****  
  
I convince myself to go back to the restaurant a few weeks later.  
You can't let your life be ruled by fear, even justifiable fear. I sit down  
at the table he had sat, just because I can.  
  
The waitress comes over. "Miss," she says. "I was asked to give  
you this if you ever came back."  
  
It's a fruit basket, delicately arranged. Mostly pear with some kind  
of apple.  
  
A note on the handle, written in neat script: I hope this isn't too  
sweet.  
  
I stare at it, with absolutely no idea what to think.  
  
*****  
  
Spring is here and love is in the air. As a connoisseur among  
spectators, it does my heart good to see it, as bittersweet as it may be.  
  
Yuzuriha is golden and lovely. She hasn't matured in the least, but  
she doesn't particularly need to. Her love glows around her like a  
nimbus although she never talks about it. I hope the object of this  
affection deserves it and acts appropriately -- I can't imagine it being  
unrequited.  
  
Kamui is unaware of what he feels. Subaru-san has not noticed it  
either, which I can't help but think that is for the best. I'm not even  
positive Kamui is in love, it could simply be desperate infatuation.  
Kamui needs to care about someone again, needs someone to care  
about him.  
  
Oh, darling boy. Of all the people to choose.  
  
And as for me, who knows, and knows better...  
  
Well, if you can't be a lover, you might as well play the fool.  
  
*****  
  
I showed my first boyfriend my flame. Melodramatic teenager to  
the hilt, I made an elaborate ceremony out of it. It certainly meant  
more to me than sex between us ever did.  
  
I could see the fire's reflection in his pupils. I held my breath.  
  
"Wow," he said. "Cool."  
  
*****  
  
The first question is, "how did you first... decide... on this  
business?"  
  
I smile a little -- I can't help it. "Well, I never made it through high  
school, so... there's that. It's good money, pretty fun, and, hey, why  
not make the most of my figure while I still have it?"  
  
He adjusts his glasses and tries not to evaluate my figure for  
himself. "So... you're satisfied?"  
  
I shrug. "Don't get me wrong, this isn't what I plan to do with the  
rest of my life. It's just something to put a roof over my head and pass  
the time."  
  
"What do you want to do with the rest of your life?"  
  
"Something important." It sounds lame, like an excuse, but it's true.  
I'm not just killing time. I'm waiting. I'm waiting as best I can for  
whatever it will be.  
  
He doesn't say anything for a moment, and I feel slightly  
embarrassed. Then our eyes meet almost by accident.   
  
He smiles. "Me too."  
  
And, for this moment, the wait is nearly a pleasant thing.  
  
*****  
  
I've met Magami Tokiko a few times before this. She's always  
struck me as elegant and calm, and, as I sit in the cathedral with my  
hands folded in supplication, I think about that serenity in the face of  
her fate. The two are related in ways I can understand, intellectually,  
and respect, but don't have the patience for myself. Which is perhaps  
why she was given her role and I given mine.  
  
I pray as I wait. My prayers are mostly of thanks these days --  
thanks that my life has been given meaning, thanks for the cruelly  
beautiful world that is worth this fight. I thank you, My Lord God,  
creator of light and dark both, for the eternal burning of your love.  
  
  
The End.  
  
  
Notes  
The title translates to 'kindled on this day of judgement,' and was taken  
from Stabat Mater, a thirteenth-century Latin hymn set to music by,  
among many others, G. B. Pergolesi. The line is from the eleventh  
movement Inflammatus et accensus, which has always been among my  
favorites and also turns out to be freakishly appropriate for Karen. 


End file.
